July 19, 1913 
FOREST AND STREAM 
73 
The Skunk Hunt 
By TOD 
of our offspring for future stock purposes, but 
don’t save any for stock that are dark in front 
of leg; it means dark meat. There will be at 
least 50 per cent, of these more valuable to 
save than to kill. A nine or ten-pound to the 
dozen squab which may bring us at killing age, 
say fifty cents, will at maturity be worth four 
times this price as a breeder, and it will only 
cost about forty cents to feed it to this age. 
We learn, and facts prove conclusively, that the 
bounds of reason must be consulted in squab 
breeding, as in all other projects, to accomplish 
our ends, and we must not rest on our oars, 
content with a six or eight-ounce squab, when 
by using judgment and slight expense such ex¬ 
cellent results are attainable. 
The enterprise, which is the propelling 
power of our work here at Yama Farms, is 
purely in the interest of educational cuds, get¬ 
ting the best results possible from applied prin¬ 
ciples ; and by experiment, establishing these 
principles for perpetual use, not only for our 
own purpose, but for the enlightenment of the 
cause in general. 
The foregoing facts bring possibly into 
notice three essential qualities in the nature of 
the breeder—one is patience, another is persist¬ 
ence, and a third adaptability. 
I have one particular pen of breeders 
where these three essentials are daily in evi¬ 
dence, and at 6 a. m. any and every morning 
finds me among my subjects, my first duty being 
to visit this pen and record results of various 
tasks I may have undertaken, different varieties 
mated, growth of squabs at a given age, feeding 
qualities of various amalgamation, etc. All 
these points are of great value, and the industry 
is not progressing unless we studiously pursue 
these possibilities and ascertain their value. 
Color of plumage and color of meat are too 
apt to be left uncared for, but light meat of 
large proportions must be a part of our success. 
When I came here there were only about 
800 birds on the place, and of these not fifty 
were light in meat or plumage. To-day, after 
ten months of careful study, we have 2,000 birds 
or over, and of these surely 800 are parti-color 
or white. All the result of careful breeding, and 
in another year we shall have one of the finest 
collections in America. 
W ITH the coming of the middle of Decem¬ 
ber, the old gun was laid away. The 
old dog began to look again like a dog 
and less like some half-starved forest creature, 
while I plunged into work piled up ahead of 
me, giving myself up to the long dreary wait 
for spring and trout fishing. 
Six weeks of it had passed when I found 
that the work was clearing up, and that I might 
have the coming Saturday afternoon to myself 
for a trip through the woods once more. A 
half day in the woods after six weeks of grind! 
You may imagine how I tried to plan to get 
the most out of it. True, on Sundays I had 
taken the old dog and gone off to watch him 
point a bird or two. I had been in the woods, 
and with a dog, but there was no zest to it. 
First, it was Sunday; then, there are certain 
laws to be observed, and a dog, a bird and a 
man do not make a picture to my eye without 
a gun. And so I cast about in my mind for 
ways and means and companions. 
I tried the office. There are good fellows 
there and some who call themselves sportsmen. 
But they all revert to the fireside species in the 
end—that kind which talks fish during the hunt¬ 
ing season and dogs, birds and guns during the 
fishing seasons. To these friends of mine I 
proposed a trip for suckers, to stun them, to 
noose them, or to hook them—anything to get 
out again. But my fireside friends did not hear 
the call. It was “too cold,” and “anyhow, we 
wouldn’t get any,” and so on, until I gave them 
up, and then, in a fit of desperation to at least 
rouse them, I proposed a skunk hunt. But the 
fellows looked at me with either fear or con¬ 
tempt or pity, so I desisted and began to plan 
for myself. 
The idea of a skunk hunt had, however, 
suddenly taken full possession of me. Why not? 
A few old clothes lost perhaps and a little 
smell, but a glorious half day spent in the woods 
—a real hunt with a zest to it; something to do. 
And then the call of the hills had me, for I 
saw myself coming down the hill in the twi¬ 
light, tired and smelly maybe, but happy and 
hungry, and with that good old feeling of an¬ 
other well spent hour or two to be remembered. 
I knew my partners then, the Dartt boys; 
men, really, but boys to those who hunt and fish 
with them. Pete, tall, thin and angular, who 
can shoot and kill before an ordinary man can 
think, and who can cut down a grouse after his 
less expert companion has missed it, and they 
say, “Well, that fellow hit a tree.” And Bert, 
his brother, built like Pete, yet not so tall nor 
yet quite so angular, but built in the same gen¬ 
eral way, who, besides shooting can train a dog 
to do anything but talk. The Dartt boys fish, 
too, and bee, but most important to me just 
then was the fact that in winter they trap and 
they can track and catch a skunk with the least 
unpleasantness of anyone I know. So it was 
to them I turned for my half day’s sport. 
I found Bert at supper, when I stopped at 
his home on my way to my own on Friday night, 
and when I proposed my plan he readily agreed. 
“Pete and I were going out anyway for some¬ 
thing. There’s enough snow for tracking, so 
we’ll make it skunks. When can you start?” 
When I told him noon, and then asked what to 
bring, he replied, “Oh, just wear your oldest 
clothes and bring a pocket knife for skinning,” 
and his eye twinkled, “but no gun, for that 
might go off and kill a pheasant, and it’s too 
cold to go to jail.” So, promptly it was ar¬ 
ranged I was to meet them at Bert’s house. He 
would tell Pete, and as soon after noon as I 
got there we would start. 
That night it snowed just a little, but it did 
not blow, and in the morning the sun rose for 
a bright, snappy, late January day. 
I got to Bert’s house a little after twelve 
and the two were waiting for me. Bert had 
a pick, Pete a hoe, and when I asked what I 
should take, Pete said, “Oh, we’ll let you take 
yours out in digging,” and he grinned at Bert. 
We went up the hill behind the house, and 
when we had come to the top, we stopped and 
the other two began to discuss where to go. 
We could follow the ridge we were on through 
little patches of woods and through pastures, 
or we could go on in the line we had started 
with down the opposite side of the hill we had 
just climbed, on up the next hill and from there 
over the flat to the big swamp. Pete was in 
favor of this latter plan. Bert didn’t have much 
choice and I frankly admitted I didn’t care, so 
we started down the hill. But just as we were 
starting, Bert suggested for me a nice chestnut 
club about four feet long, or a little less, and 
about an inch thick. “Something to fix a per¬ 
fume bag with,” as Pete said. 
I cut the club and then we started again, 
but we had gone but a little way when Pete, 
who was walking to my left, said, “Here’s been 
one!” I went to where he was standing. I 
wanted to see the tracks, for I was not sure 
I knew a skunk track when I saw one. Bert 
came up and the two brothers decided that the 
track was fresh and worth following, so Pete 
began to trail. I went to one side and Bert to 
IMPORTED ENGLISH RUNT AND MONDAINE. 
